The Deep End (of the Thought Pool), Vol. I: Smart people saying smart things.

"There could never really be justice on stolen land."

- KRS-One, from "Sound of Da Police", Return of the Boom Bap

Pop Culture Potpourri: And People Wonder Why Radio is Dying

Merton Sussex, King of the Damned

First, a disclaimer: I know full well that looking to morning radio for substance is like looking for an honest cop in Tijuana. Yes, the law of averages would seem to indicate that such a thing more than likely exists, but actually finding it is a fools' errand that's most assuredly not worth the effort. The sad fact is, with rare exceptions, the sort of programming most mainstream radio puts on in the mornings is so sack-of-gravel stupid that it actually gives you a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you fear for the continued future of the human species.

That said, some folks are just plain overachievers of under-delivery.

The dopey grins and dead eyes to the right belong to the Twin Cities' pre-eminent Drum Majors in the great 'tard parade, KS-95's "Greg and Melissa." Or, as they're most often referred to on the air, "GreggenM'lissuh," which, when you think about it, almost looks and sounds like some sort of two-headed, baby-eating monster from a Welsh folk tale. Apropos, that.

But, not to worry. This isn't the case. I say this largely because my exposure to them has left me with serious doubts as to whether either of them possesses the mental capacity to feed themselves at ALL, much less consume fresh infants that need to be dressed and de-boned before you can even think about roasting them.

Morning after morning, GreggenM'lissuh serve up exactly the sort of dumbed-down, lukewarm tapioca-brained pap that the General Public who made Jay Leno the #1 host in late night apparently demands. The gulf in intelligence 'twixt their show and, say, NPR's "Morning Edition" is so vast that Columbus would've died TWICE trying to sail the expanse of it.

For the blissfully uninitiated: their repertoire consists largely of toothless gags, empty and obvious pop-culture "observations," and stuff ripped off wholesale from much-funnier humor-based news-aggregator websites like Fark.com. And yeah, in this, they're far from unique. Every major media market in America has a similar "wacky" morning team whose only real purpose is to shovel enough waste product to fill drive-time (Don't even get me started on those hyena-cackling syndicated penises "Bob & Tom"). Such a situation is pretty much par for the course on airwaves from Portland to Miami, so it's not like anything up to now has been news, per se. What bears remarking upon is the amazing consistency, the bland, reliable, cream-of-wheat evenness of their banality. They succeed only at being deeply vapid, all the time. Their greatest achievement is the unwavering smoothness they achieve in the colorless rhetoric they dribble while busily and enthusiastically soaring to new depths.

To begin with, in addition to being incredibly vacuous (which, admittedly, most AM hosts are), they're also a pair of right-leaning conservative puritans. So besides being culturally and intellectually shallower than a Frisbee™, their show is also riddled with barely-concealed contempt for any person or idea any further left than Dennis Motherfucking Miller. Granted, they're not journalists...SHIT, no. Perish the thought. So it's hardly as though they're held to any standard of neutrality. They're not required to leave their personal bias at the door when they punch in, I suppose. It's just a jarring thing to pause just long enough when flicking through my presets to hear the female specimen smugging it up as she pulls the same sort of thinly-veiled, "don't get me wrong, I TOTALLY respect their right to exist, and stuff" diatribes of passive-aggressive homosexual-bashing hate speech that not even far prettier blondie-bots with expensive, pageant-funded Tupper-tits are allowed to get away with.

"No offense to anyone out there, but I personally think that I believe that U.S. Americans'
marriage should be between a man and a woman and like The Iraq and such as."

And it's not just gays. As it is with the bulk of moralist religion-humping Republican types, it's anyone who thinks or acts differently. F'rinstance: the other day, I stopped for a sufficient span of seconds to have the privilege of hearing the two of them go to town on "The Bachelorette" (which is just further reinforcement of the usual academic level of the proceedings). Evidently, there's some dude currently on the show who has a full-on foot fetish, and footage of him talking to the camera about how much he wants to suck on the desperate bimbo du jour's instep is constantly inter-cut with unbroken takes of his longing stares at her pump-enhanced toe-cleavage. Fair enough. I'll allow that's likely as not at least as interesting to watch as moisture evaporating out of freshly-applied "Sandy Beige" flat wall latex.

But these two mooks were having a god-damned field day...especially Golden Years Barbie. She just couldn't shut her tooth-lined dick-receptacle about how EWW WEIRD it was that this guy thought the chick on the show had pretty feet, and how he liked to kiss and massage them. They even invited any of their brain-dead listenership who might have had any experience with some shameful C.H.U.D. who dug feet to call in and share their stories of said "weirdo" encounters. And she wrapped the whole disgusting proceedings up with the typical breathless shock you might expect of your average dishwater-dull meat-and-potatoes puritan aghast at anything more salacious than the grudgingly joyless, pitch-dark room/hole-in-sheet procreation-based medical-grade intercourse she reluctantly permits her husband on the occasion of his birthday. "GOSH, I'm glad I'm 'normal'! What's next...cross-dressing?!?"

I'm honestly not into dudes, but FUCK is he pretty.

Y'know what, you squared-off, Palin-worshiping skin-puppet? Maybe! And at the end of the day, if some dude in his wife's pantyhose is happy, fulfilled, and not hurting anyone, then so fucking what? Who are you to judge or denigrate them, much less invite others to call in and jeer them as well? How DARE you?!?

Look, I'm NOT a foot fetishist. But if I was, I'd admit it. Y'know why? Because there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. A lot of people with quirky trigger-trips feel needlessly ashamed, isolated, and alone enough about their perfectly-normal desires even WITHOUT insignificant vagina-hosts like Sister Mary Dumbshit openly mocking them on the airwaves. People with completely harmless erotic preferences should feel good about their needs, to give themselves the permission to explore them in ways that are healthy, consensual, and beneficial to their psyches. So it does NOBODY any good when June Cleaver (and her un-ironic pearl necklace) pulls the incredulous act out of her puckered dirt-star in a public forum like that. Christ. As if folks don't have enough to deal with without being made to feel like deviant freaks by a couple of square, clueless prudes on the radio calling out their secret yen.

And besides, if they think something as comparatively vanilla as having a foot fetish is that outlandish, it's probably for the best that they've just advertised out loud just how sheltered their wetly-trembling li'l sensibilities are. Because then people might refrain from calling to their attention any of the myriad of even more unusual, but still totally-reasonable kinks some others have. Hell, I'm not even someone who necessarily seeks out the alternative-lifestyle crowd (for the most part), but if something so "Sex 101" as a fucking foot fetish gets their blood pressure up, hearing even the surface details of some of my TAMER evenings would curl their hair, knot their underpants and induce fatal cardiac arrest.

Go ahead...use your imagination. We sure as hell did.

Uptight judgment of others aside, that's not to say their little motorcade of morning mediocrity is TOTALLY devoid of any entertainment value. A lot of days, I play a little game with myself. I turn on their show when I leave home for Diary HQ, but I do so with the understanding that my finger will reflexively stab a different pre-set the MILLISECOND that I can sense my intelligence has been, or is about to be insulted. Sometimes, I make it a block or two. If there's a song or a commercial on, I might even make it as far as the highway on-ramp. Today? The garage door wasn't even closed yet by the time the stimulus/response conditioning kicked in, and I was jabbing at my radio like a smack-addled chimp in a Skinner box. I wish I was joking.

Once in awhile, I also dial up their dung-fest when they're running one of their regularly-scheduled call-in contests. This is largely because most of their aforementioned stone-skulled audience members (as you might expect) are such cripplingly-hilarious mongoloids that it's a good dose of schadenfreude to hear them fumble around and fuck up tests of mental prowess easier than your sister at a Shriners' convention.

To wit: they have this derivative rip-off called "The $25 Pyramid" that's similar to the $64,000 version, wherein they feed you clues trying to get you to figure out the shared category they belong in within a specific time limit. And it's always a crap-shoot (emphasis on "crap") as far as who is going to be more hilariously inept: the low-watt bulbs calling in, or the meat-headed seat-warmers mouth-breathing into the microphones.

Pictured: Greg, Melissa.
Not shown: EEG-measurable beta-wave activity.

As with most things during their programming block, Tweedle-Dumb is marginally better at this than Tweedle-Dumber. He's usually at least in the ballpark, if not outright running the bases. But her? If the category is "Peanut-Butter Brands," you can be sure she'll stammer for at least five seconds trying to wrack her shriveled raisin of a brain adequately enough to drop turds like, "Jiffy-Pop," "Skipper" and "Peter Paul." At which point the clueless dolt on the phone will no doubt blurt out, "TYPES OF SHOES!!!"

Or if it's "Ice cream flavors," she'll no doubt come up with "Pork," "Grape" and "Guilt," prompting the response of, "Places my dad touched me!" Maybe one in twenty will actually be lucky enough to penetrate the dense knot of their clumsy incompetence and win miniature portraits of Andrew Jackson and Abe Lincoln, plus some other perfunctorily worthless "prize" like tickets to a concert nobody in their right mind would ever want to go to (that they're giving away because there are still so many still left unsold). So, that particular few minutes usually turns out to be the only thing they do that's actually funny, albeit unintentionally.

In fact, the imbeciles who typically play this little game are so laughably thick that I got it into my head that I had to make it through on the phone banks someday, play Ken Jennings to their collective Zippy the Pinhead, and run the board by barking out a single correct guess per category before the flesh-pod that was giving the clues even got done reading the second one. This would be a challenge, but mostly due to how much they suck at coming up with examples to convey each item or idea on the list.

This really doesn't need a caption. I'm just gonna go ahead and
file it under, "Part of the Problem."

Even so, I managed to do exactly this, to the letter, the morning after I decided I ought to try. The dude half of their brain trust (thankfully) fed me the clues, they were as plainly simple as always, and I got every one on the first guess. It was kind of a letdown, actually. Kind of like everything else they do. I mean, it's one thing to set realistic goals for yourself. It's quite another to achieve them with such minimal effort that you literally used a larger percentage of your cerebral cortex tying your shoes before you left the house. I mean, sure. Based on having heard this wee game played previous to this, I knew it would be easy. I wasn't prepared for effortless. Leave it to those "shoot for the bottom" anus-wrinkles to rob me of even the SLIGHTEST sense of anything resembling accomplishment.

So, apparently, I won 25 bucks and two tickets to a Bridal Expo. The tickets, I was supposed to go to their studios to collect. Which you can bet I did with all of the speed and urgency of a 90-year old's bowel movement. As you can well imagine, I have about as much use for (and interest in) a Bridal Expo as I do in exfoliating the head of my penis with a cheese grater. In front of my mother. While she's naked.

Warning: prolonged exposure to this photo has been shown to be a leading cause of pancreatic cancer.

As for the 25 bones, they mailed it to me. Or, at least, they said they did. I "won" their little Special Olympics in early March, but it's currently mid-June, and I've still never seen the check. This, despite three consecutive weekly phone calls to the bubble-headed dingbat in their promotions office who I'll refer to as "Kelsey," mostly because that's her name. So, I guess KS-95 is an operation that doesn't confine the idea of abject incompetence just to the broadcast booth.

Y'know...I'm an optimist at heart. I want to believe that most people are basically good, and capable. It's been said that every cynic is a frustrated idealist, and I guess that's me in a nutshell. It's just that the longer I live, and the more I find myself exposed to sharp-as-a-bowling-ball, "we got to fail UPWARD" schmucks like the Dread Beastie GreggenM'lissuh, the more its becoming apparent that "Idiocracy" wasn't a spoof cautionary tale. It was a pre-emptive documentary.


Except, of course, for the part where we'd ever be progressive enough to elect a black president.

Macho Man Randy Savage Sought in Connection with Slim Jim Factory Explosion

Officials unsure of cause, but many suspect Slim Jim's volatile combination of super-charged spice and beefy, juicy flavor.

(CNN) -- Two people were found dead and a third person is still believed missing in a North Carolina food plant heavily damaged in a morning explosion, police said Tuesday night.

Four people were in critical condition after the explosion at the ConAgra Foods plant in the town of Garner, CNN affiliate WRAL-TV reported.

The explosion, reported about 11:30 a.m. Tuesday, caused sections of the roof to collapse. Search efforts for those missing were slowed by ammonia leaks and a fire that was not extinguished until afternoon.

"There was no warnings, no signs," Garner Mayor Ronnie Williams said. "It all happened very abruptly."

At least 38 people were transported to area hospitals, said Jeff Hammerstein, district chief for Wake County Emergency Medical Services.

Police said recovery workers still were trying to get the two bodies out of the plant, which makes Slim Jim food products. The victims' names weren't immediately available.

More than 300 people were in the plant when the explosion happened, authorities said. The cause of the blast was unknown, according to Garner police spokesman Joe Binns.

Rescuers were crawling into the rubble -- sometimes in pockets of space less than 30 inches tall -- in attempts to access the two bodies and find the missing person, officials said at a news conference Tuesday night.

The search crews were moving slowly in part because the building is very unstable, officials said.

Video from the scene showed holes in sections of the roof of the 425,000 square-foot plant. First responders set up a makeshift triage area near the building. A section of the roof was collapsed, and pipes could be seen spewing liquid believed to be ammonia. VideoWatch liquid spew from building »

ConAgra Foods' brands include Healthy Choice, Chef Boyardee and Orville Redenbacher, among others. The Garner plant is known for producing Slim Jim beef jerky products.

The company was "working with authorities on the ground to ensure that their employees are getting all of the support that they need," said Stephanie Childs, ConAgra director of corporate communication. "The employees' health is their only real concern at this time."

Gail Ruffin, a ConAgra worker who was in the plant when the explosion happened, told WRAL she heard a boom.

"The ceiling start coming down, and we all start running," Ruffin, who wasn't injured, told WRAL. "Everyone was trying to get to the exit door.

Garner is seven miles south of Raleigh.

For the record, a "fiery storm of ultra-processed animal byproducts" is number 3 on the DoF's Worst Ways to Die list.

Elaine Benes vs. Barry Bonds: A Statistical Analysis of Improbable Late-Career Surges

by Blaine Fridley, No Longer Welcomed at Neighborhood Gym

Last week at the gym, I accidentally watched CBS. Which, unless being subjected to an advanced interrogation technique, is the only way I'm ever going to watch CBS. In all honesty, I was a tad bit surprised to learn that it still existed. Andy Rooney, too, apparently. 

Well, on that particular evening, the Columbia Broadcasting System was airing a brutally-named program called The New Adventures of Old Christine starring the former Ms. Elaine Benes - Julia Louis-Dreyfus - as "Old Christine."

After catching a glimpse of the now 48 year-old comedic actress, I quickly thought of a new title and mailed it off to CBS president Leslie Moonves: ¡SPOOGE!

Good christ, she's fine as all hell (No word back yet from Leslie on that title change, btw. But I don't imagine him arguing the point that ¡SPOOGE! is a far superior title).

And then while browsing the gym's magazine rack for the newest copy of Ebony, I'm slapped in the face with this rack:

Daaaaamn, Elaine! 

I said, shit! Goddamn!

Wha ha happen'd? 

Don't you know you're supposed to be OLD?

I should be reading your pamphlet on the ravages of Osteoporosis, not rubbing one out at the gym to your Shape Magazine cover. (Note: Be on the look out for my next post: The Top Ways to Get Your Gym Membership Revoked. Hint: don't rub one out on the elliptical machine. Also don't resist arrest so you can "finish" before being taken into custody. That only exacerbates the problem). 

In fact, Julia Louis-Dreyfus is way more of a boner threat now than she was 20 years ago. 

See?

I suspect some sort of performance enhancing drugs are at play.

After all, this kind of late-career surge is almost unprecedented.

Almost.

 

Conclusion:

Julia Louis-Dreyfus is the Barry Bonds of female sitcom actresses.

Ummmm...Yeah: Those Crazy Japanese, Vol. 4

Admittedly, I don't understand Portuguese well enough/at all to understand what the caption read on the blog I stole this from (nor am I completely sure how I ended up on a Portuguese blog. Last thing I remember I was being hooded, tied, sedated and tossed into a nondescript white van. When I came to I was on a Portuguese blog. You know the story), but context or no, I'm pretty sure that this...just. isn't. right.

DoF Newswire: Brad Pitt is a Hideous Crater-faced Monster

"Sexxxiest Man Alive?" Psshhh, yeah right. Just how much did your publicist pay People Magazine for that honor, Brad?

From AOL.com:

So just what does a closer look at Brad Pitt reveal?

Well, thanks to some great work by the DoF's Ministry of Celebrity Dermatology, we were able to find out using advanced image enhancing techniques andOHMYGODWHY??

That's right, Olmos. It's personal now. Come get your dance, you son of a bitch.

-Blaine.

Hot Sh!t: The Bees

But for some reason in the US, they're known as A Band of Bees. No matter what you call them, their music results in a massive erection.

These two cuts are off of 2007's Octopus.

http://www.thebees.info/

And my favorite tune…

Left Foot Stepdown - A Band Of Bees

DoF Friday Funk: No Love for The Government Edition

One of Stevie's most powerful and under-rated cuts off of 1972's Talking Book. Lyrics included. Read 'em. 

Your name is big brother
You say that you're watching me on the tele,
Seeing me go nowhere,
Your name is big brother,
You say that you're tired of me protesting,
Children dying everyday,
My name is nobody
But I can't wait to see your face inside my door

Your name is big brother
You say that you got me all in your notebook,
Writing it down everyday,
Your name is I'll see ya,
I'll change if you vote me in as the pres,
The President of your soul
I live in the ghetto,
You just come to visit me 'round election time

I live in the ghetto,
Someday I will move on my feet to the other side,
My name is secluded,
We live in a house the size of a matchbox,
Roaches live with us wall to wall,

You've killed all our leaders,
I don't even have to do nothin' to you
You'll cause your own country to fall

This Day in History (Happy Ending Edition): June 4th

1989: Chinese Pro-Democracy Demonstration in Tiananmen Square.

In the wake of several other Communist regimes having toppled in the previous months, hundreds, if not thousands of Chinese nationals take to Tiananmen Square in Beijing to protest the current government.

For their part, the government totally hears every word the people say and agrees with them. President Deng Xiaoping appears on state-run television to immediately throw down the shackles of oppression, and adopt a representative republic based on fair courts, free elections, parliamentary assembly and human rights progress. As a measure of gratitude for having softened his heart and shown him the error of his ways, Deng also declares a national day of hugging, laughter, ice cream and rainbows.

This dude totally got a free puppy, too.

1984: Bruce Springsteen Releases Landmark "Born in the U.S.A." Album.


Of course, the title track is a celebration of the triumph of the inimitable American Spirit, and celebrates all of the glorious reasons why the United States is the greatest county ever. Hey, if that's the way politicians use it for personal gain, then that's the way it is and you don't get to argue.

It's also a totally well-written song with a complex, layered chorus, and a melodic structure partially inspired by (and playfully reminiscent of) the Romantic-movement compositions of noted Czech maestro Antonín Dvořák, whom Springsteen has repeatedly cited as a major influence.

1892: The Sierra Club is Founded in San Francisco.

Well-known conservationist and preservationist John Muir is instrumental in creating the grassroots environmental conservation org. He also serves as Sierra's first president, thus beginning his meteoric rise to prominence in America.

After successfully lobbying Congress and President Theodore Roosevelt to sign legislation creating a Constitutional Amendment protecting America's green space, air quality and waterways from pollution and over-development in perpetuity, Muir went on to narrowly defeat Warren G. Harding in the 1910 Presidential election, beginning his service of three terms in the Oval Office.

Once in power, Muir was able to achieve great leaps in balancing America's emerging industrial infrastructure with responsible environmental practice. The entire nation, and in fact, the whole world were subsequently inspired by his example. This gave rise to the ubiquitous, universally-undertaken and now-unquestioned practices of recycling, carbon-footprint reduction and pollution restraint that have kept the Earth's delicate ecosystems in complete harmonious balance ever since.

The Perils of Live Television

Hey, I gotta give the guy credit for getting through that. Had he not been so cool, he could've wound up like THESE poor bastards:

DoF Newswire: Man Escapes Oppressive Agents of the Evil Witch Queen

A delicious vid passed on by friend of the DoF/Mustache ride operator E-Dubs, who sets this brilliant clip up perfectly in his email:

"It starts out as an "annoying drunk guy getting tazed by the cops" video, but at 1:15 it transcends banality and transfigures itself into awesomeness . . . YAHWEH awesomeness at that."

Quick Diary Poll:

What would you like to see become the hot catch phrase of the summer:

a) I am at peace with every man in the nation and you men are violent

b) Your evil witch queen says it's not allowed to be

c) I call on the compassions of the universe

d) I am defending myself in favor of that

e) YAHWEEEEEEHHHHHH!

Leave your answer in the comments and win nothing.

High Comedy Anachronism Presented By Ciroc Ultra Premium Vodka

by Blaine Fridley, Living to see the day when Diddy is broke

BAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA{coughcoughhackcoughcough}

ha...ha...haaaaa{breathe, breathe}

Oh, man...

{breathe, wipe tears}

... sorry about that. Haha... wooooo, boy.

You just caught me watching Diddy's most recent video, and it begs the question: is there anything more comically out of place than Diddy-being-Diddy in the midst of an economic disaster?

Diddy himself answers that question with a resounding and completely clueless "NO!" in the video for his latest song(?) "Diddy Bop"/ Vodka commercial.

Here, take a look:

baaaaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHahaha. ha. ha.

Ahem.

Again, sorry about that.

Where to even start?

Um…

How 'bout FUCKING EVERYWHERE. Jesus Butt-Fucking Christ on a tea-bagging Buddha this is bad.

Really bad.

I bet even Ma$e is embarrassed for you Diddily-Doo.

Just based on this Hypnotized-meets-Soulja Boy anal mucous-covered monstrosity, we can assume that Sean "Puffy-PuffDaddy-PDiddy-Diddy" Combs has absolutely no friends.

Not one.

How could a friend honestly look him in the face and say, "Yeah, Diddy! That shit is HOT!"

Anybody that would say that is definitely on his payroll. And I'm assuming if you're hanging out with this fucking turd you have to be getting paid for it, or else, what are you getting in return for your soul?

This shit doesn't even get off the goddamn launching pad before it blows up like the hip-hop Challenger. That's when we see that Diddy Bop is proudly presented to us by Ciroc Ultra Premium Vodka.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Look, I grew up in a Midwestern suburb. I'm not exactly sure what "street cred" means really. But I am 100% sure you have zero.

Criminal Minded Presented by Twizzlers!

Not only do you start the video with a pitch for Vodka, you make it part of the motherfucking chorus!

And I quote:

Diddy, Diddy
Do the Diddy Bop
Diddy Bop
Lemonade and Ciroc

You're advertising another product ON YOUR OWN FUCKING COMMERCIAL.

Do you know how completely retarded this makes you look?

No, of course you don't. We just went over that.

Well, let me clue you in, then.

It makes you look about as completely fucking retarded as you look when you're "rapping" about your furs, Prada, private islands and yacht-racing with hoez while companies are shedding more jobs then Bad Boy is credible artists.

Fuck. You.

And worst of all, you didn't even write this shit:

Even under my umbrella

I keep bitches wetter than floods

or

Naked broads brush my teeth with solid gold brushes

or my fist-fuckingly-fabulous favorite:

I'm somethin' special,

look at me

I'm something special

(HAHAHAHAHA... Just in case you didn't get that after 3 minutes of him hammering you over the head with money, hoez and clothes.)

Yeah.

You PAID somebody to "write" that. Or, more accurately, some enterprising ghostwriter straight hustled you, Diddler.

But you're too fucking stupid to realize that.

Just like you're too fucking stupid to realize that Biggie became a legend inspite of your ass, not because of it. So stop raping his legacy by appearing in every video with a B.I.G. t-shirt. You're about as responsible for his success as Mike Brown is for Lebron James'.

So again, in closing, you're tacky and I hate you.

Saw this at the strip mall last night...

Does that cost extra? And can she call me a bitch and dye my hair chartreuse while she does it? Because I might be okay with that.

UFC is nothing new.....

Pankration is a martial arts sport introduced to the Greek Olympic Games in 648 BC as a blend of wrestling and boxing. The term comes from the Ancient Greek literally meaning "all powers" (from pan = all, and kratos = strength or power). It is also used to describe the sport's contemporary variations. Some consider it as the first all-encompassing fighting system in human history. It is also arguable that Pankration competitions in antiquity were the closest an athletic event has come to outright, no-rules, empty hand combat.

In an odd turn of events, a Pankration fighter named Arrhichion of Phigalia won the event despite being dead. His opponent had locked him in a choke-hold and Arrhichion, desperate to loosen it, broke his opponent's toe (some records say his ankle). The opponent nearly passed out from pain and submitted. As the referee raised Arrhichion's hand, it was discovered that he had died from the choke-hold. His body was crowned with the olive wreath and taken back to Phigaleia as a hero.

That's some sexy, sexy fighting.

Now, 2657 years after the introduction in the Olympics (with help from cable television deals and expansion into Canada, Europe and the United States), the UFC as of 2009 has experienced a remarkable surge in popularity.

I remember back in 1993-1995 when UFC started, a few friends of mine were really into it. These were the guys with low self-esteem, scared kids who never were to enter a fight themselves. but as soon as a new tape (this was before DVD) came out, they sat on the couch with a semi-hard dick, watching Royce Gracie and the boys.

This human cock fighting will never be as hard or cruel as it was in the Olympics 648 BC and hopefully it will never be a Olympic sport again. Have you ever tried to watch Olympic Boxing?

Never, ever try to fight me.

I wonder who will be the first to win a match posthumously? And how many thousands of men and women will be in the arena in complete ecstasy when it happens, laughing, giving high fives and loving the carnage of the moment?

When in Rome, do as the Romans...did?

PEter

Diary of Fools Classic - My Excellent Adventure: The Doctor’s Office

DoF Classic. Originally posted 12/4/08 

by JR

Fourscore and... 3 days ago… I, me, was brought forth upon a most excellent adventure conceived by appointment only. I am dedicated to a proposition which is true to my time, Be excellent to each other and… go to the doctor for regular check ups…

…I look around. Who designed this waiting room? There must be a Waiting Room Décor Magazine and they flipped to the post modern pharmaceutical-esc photo layout and said, “That looks like a nice place to wait.”

I grabbed a Highlights for Children magazine and immediately turned to the Ask Arizona advice column. In this episode, while making a parade float, Arizona and her karate friends learn about working together. “Fantastic!” I thought to myself.

Putting the funny looking gown on was the most challenging task I’ve done all week, despite how simple the instructions were. “It goes on like a jacket; the sheet goes on your lap.” Looking down at it, I’m sure this has been worn 100-200 times before me. Does just washing the gown get all the germs off from the other patients? What about super germs?

…I’m asked to pee in a cup. “That must be way easier for you since you stand to pee,” I tell the assistant. She didn’t think that was funny.

While waiting for the doctor to come in, I wonder if they are watching me on a hidden camera or through a one-way mirror. I would if I were them - just to see what shit I take. In case my suspicions are true, I wave and wink at the ceiling and mirror. They’re probably saying to themselves, “I’ve been caught!” or “this chick is a lunatic!” I’ll do that in public bathrooms as well. I’m sure I’ve been in a stall with a hidden camera at one point in my life. I’ll wave my middle finger in front of the air vent or even the toilet.

My blood pressure was a little on the high end but I explained to the assistant that I was at a doctors office, and “it’s not exactly nap time for me. It should be though, shit.” She left quickly. I neglected to tell her I was also high on acid.

I sit and wait. I know I have a good 15 to 20 minutes before the doctor comes in. I move seats a few times. I open and close drawers. I play with the green and red switches. I steal shit (2 bedpans, a urine cup, a stethoscope, and a pap smear kit). Score! Christmas gifts for everyone this year!

I wave at the mirror once more. I look horrible in pastel colors! And this florescent lighting makes me look like a ghost. I’m starting to look forward to the stir-ups and cold metal prongs!

There’s a knock on the door and before I could say come in, the doctor had come in. We go through the usual. She says something. I say something back. Then the examination begins. “This is going to feel a little cold,” she says. Cue awkwardness. To break the silence, I ask, “Whose idea was it to paint clouds on the light fixture? …They should add a rainbow… just to make it even more gay.” Cue more awkward silence... “Do you validate for parking?” She wrote me my prescription in Chinese and hurried out of the room.

I was a little annoyed that I was just over the free parking time limit. But the stethoscope could get me at least a hundred on eBay, so I got over it. The End.